Shatter
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: As both a doctor and a soldier, John knows bones are easily broken. Despite this he finds that, in a moment of anger, it's easy to forget how fragile Sherlock's might be until it's too late.
1. Part One

**This was written for the 'let's write Sherlock' challenge on tumblr, for this prompt: ****After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…**

**Warnings: Violence, mild swearing, description of blood. Could be seen as Sherlock/John, depending on whether you wear the goggles or not.**

* * *

John is fighting off the flashbacks every agonising inch of the taxi ride.

He's a strong man, and it's been more than four months since Sherlock came back from the dead, but the case had been too punishing, too exhausting, and running round a corner to find Sherlock with blood running over his face in almost exactly the same pattern it had been on the pavement outside St Bart's has been enough to shake his resolution. The façade he's been carefully keeping in place over the past weeks shatters. Even gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, even with his forehead pressed against the cool window of the taxi in a desperate attempt to stay grounded, he can't keep them at bay. Sherlock, of course, has shrugged the whole thing off. His nose isn't broken, his murderer is in the passably able hands of Scotland Yard, and he's had yet another chance to prove he's brilliant. He doesn't ask John if he's alright, even when John, tight-lipped and breathing shallowly, doesn't speak to him for the whole journey.

It's the stickiness of the blood that's gotten to him – at St Bart's he'd never been able to touch anything but Sherlock's hand. Since Sherlock's return he's had time to convince himself that the suicide had looked fake all along – perhaps the blood been too light, too watery. The wrong colour. Had it fallen differently to real blood? Today has taken that illusion, screwed it up, and thrown it rather forcibly in the dustbin. The blood had looked real at Bart's, as real as it had been today. John still has some of it under his fingernails, but he can't bring himself to pick it out. He's too busy trying to stop himself vomiting.

"John? John?"

John turns his head minutely to the left as the taxi glides to a halt. He wonders if Sherlock has noticed, and almost hopes he has – if Sherlock asks him why he looks so ill he can slide easily into his 'for god's sake what did you think you were doing you nearly died' rant. "Mm?"

"We're here."

John rolls his eyes. Too much to hope, of course, that Sherlock would give a damn. "I can see that."

"My wallet was impounded." Sherlock slides easily out of the cab and makes for 221b without looking back. John groans, gets to his feet, rolls out his stiff shoulder in the vain hope of making it less painful, and pays the driver. The cabbie glares as he counts out coins and then mutters something about 'time wasters'. John practically runs to the safety of the stairs, head pounding, mouth dry. The blood on his nails is distracting, so he steals himself and begins to scrape it away. He's too brutal – his fingers start to bleed.

Sherlock is already fiddling with his microscope when John steps into the lounge. He hasn't even bothered to turn the lights on; when John flicks the switch the sudden flash makes his eyes burn and his throat contract. For a second, in his startled, spangled vision, Sherlock looks like a ghost. He might well have been, if John had come round that corner a second later.

But he's not, John reminds himself. He takes a deep breath. He's tired and emotional, and he needs to rest, and things will seem better later. The sense of growing panic in the pit of his stomach will melt away, and everything will be fine. He's fine.

"We need milk."

Sherlock's voice grates against John's already frayed nerves. He hesitates in the doorway to the kitchen, the prospect of a soothing cup of tea draining away.

"Why don't you get some then?" he mutters, wondering if he can stand the tea without milk in. He goes to the fridge and opens it in the childish hope milk will spontaneously appear.

"Busy." Sherlock hums under his breath, adjusts his microscope, and knocks a tube of something grey and glutinous onto the floor with his elbow. He doesn't make any move to clean it up, even after John stares pointedly. He isn't watching. John's panic, fuelled by fear, begins to creep its way towards anger. He feels the tendons in his jaw tightening.

"You were to 'busy' to look where you were bloody well going too, were you? Too busy to wait for me to catch up so you didn't get a knife in your guts?"

It works. Sherlock flicks his eyes up in John's direction. He looks almost bewildered that John should say such a thing – that John should be _worried _about him. Heaven forbid.

"I had everything under control. I knew you were less than ten seconds away, and had he continued to hit me, I was perfectly capable of-"

John slams the fridge door closed with such force he hears something inside it smash. More things he'll have to clear up, more broken glass and spilled liquid. He's trembling with anger.

"You didn't know any of that."

"I-"

"What if I'd fallen over? What if I'd taken a wrong turn?" John feels his nostrils flare as he steps forward. Sherlock straightens, pushing his microscope away. "What if he'd taken that knife out straight away and decided not to punch you first?"

Sherlock still has a smudge of blood under one nostril. As John approaches he seems to notice, and wipes it away with a delicate fingertip before speaking.

"Don't be tedious. I had everything under control."

"No you didn't!" John isn't sure when he started shouting; he only knows he is now. He's more than shouting – he's screaming. His voice is hoarse. "You did _not _have that under control, and don't try and pretend to me that you did!" He becomes aware he's crossed the kitchen only after he's in front of Sherlock, practically face to face even though that requires him to stand on tiptoes. Sherlock doesn't even seem surprised; he just raises one eyebrow, almost lazily, and looks at John with contempt.

"There is no need to get so…worked up."

"Isn't there?"

"I am safe. You are safe. Raising your blood pressure will only make you feel ill."

"I already feel ill, Sherlock!" John blows air out from between his teeth in a shrill whistle as he tries to bludgeon his breathing into a normal rhythm, a rhythm that might actually provide him with air. He can't breathe. He can only keep shouting. "I've seen you die once; I don't need to see it a second time, you selfish…selfish…"

"Bastard? Prick?" Sherlock has his arms folded. "Come John, your choice of insults is broad enough – surely you can pick one of them?"

John punches him.

It's the sort of punch that he used to throw when he was getting into fights in the playground, something vindictive and petty and powerful. His fist connects with Sherlock's cheek with a dull thud; he feels one of his knuckles crack under the impact with a heavy click that has him drawing his hand back hastily, hissing. Sherlock staggers against the counters, one elbow thrown backward to catch himself as he falls. His eyes are closed – John can't tell whether he's shocked, scared, or still defiant. He doesn't feel guilty. He feels alive. The panic that had been growing inside his stomach has died. He feels human again.

"J'hn…"

Sherlock's face is already swelling. John's fingers twitch a second time, but he stops himself from moving forward, whether out of the need to apologise or the need to hit Sherlock again, he can't tell. He turns and walks away, out of the kitchen, out of the door, down the stairs and onto the street. He doesn't stop walking until his knuckles have stopped burning, and he's no longer sure which area of London he's in.

* * *

John returns to the flat four hours later, three-quarters drunk, smelling strongly of beer and feeling slightly dizzy, but with the flashbacks safely at bay and the first stirrings of guilt beginning to filter into his foggy mind. He's decided he shouldn't have lashed out – it had been wrong, it had been immature. Sherlock will be sulking about it. John will put ice on his face, make him comfortable and apologise, and Sherlock will forgive him.

Sherlock's been entirely too forgiving since he came back. They both have. John, grateful for any form of reprieve from his heavy, grief-sodden existence, had let Sherlock slide into his life with a bare minimum of explanation, with nothing except a few tears, two shouting matches, and a brief hug. Until today, he'd assumed he'd forgiven Sherlock. Now he's not so sure.

"Sherlock?" He throws down his coat, too tired and drunk to bother hanging it, and kicks the door shut behind him. The flat is dim and quiet. "Sherlock?"

"J'hn."

John turns his head toward the sofa and picks out Sherlock sitting on the floor against it. He has one hand over his face, pressing a bulky-looking object – probably frozen peas – firmly to his cheek. At least he's had the sense to keep the wound cold. And yet, something in John's chest flutters; Sherlock never complains about injuries, brushes them off without so much as a flinch more often than not. If he's in enough pain to warrant actually doing something about it, then it must be bad. John flicks on the main light. He suddenly feels quite sober, and a little sick.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock inclines his head, says nothing. It's hard to tell with the bag of frozen vegetables in the way, but his face seems puffy, the bruising visible even from a distance. The parts of him that aren't bright red or purple are pale as tissue paper, and just as fragile-looking. The vulnerability of it makes John scared. He works hard not to stumble as he makes his way to the sofa and crouches down.

"Let me see."

Sherlock pulls away. "S'fine."

"For god's sake, let me see!"

Sherlock reluctantly lets his hand drop, and the peas slide in a puddle of their own defrosting ice to the floor, spattering the carpet and the bottom of John's trousers. John gently puts a hand to Sherlock's chin, turns his face into the light, and has to work hard to stop himself bringing up the meagre, whisky-laced contents of his stomach. All sense of drunkenness evaporates in an instant. He has one hand over his mouth in less than that time.

The bruising is nothing. Sherlock's face has changed shape; his left cheekbone, the one John had so hastily, carelessly, slammed a fist into, seems lower than the other, depressed into his swollen face. The thought that the cracking, clicking sound John had heard when his hand had connected with Sherlock's bones might not have been his knuckles jars painfully at the forefront of his mind. His legs feel weak; his knees suddenly seem hollow.

"Shit."

Sherlock's lip twitches – the right lip, not the left. He can't move the left side of his face without pain, and John doesn't need to see the brightness of his eyes to know that. He's a doctor. He can visualise the diagrams from his medical texts, the line drawings of skulls and scalpels. The list of symptoms. The causes.

"Th't bad?"

"Get up."

Sherlock blinks. "Hm?"

Speech problems. Depressed bone. Swelling. He glances at Sherlock's left eye, but can't see any evidence of it drooping; not yet. It's a mercy he's grateful for, but that doesn't make it any easier. He can't feel it, not yet, but he will do. In six, twelve hours, when this is over, he's going to feel the full force of what he's done, and then he really will throw up. But he can't yet, because he has to do something.

"How's your vision? Left eye?"

"Bit fuzzy. 'hy?"

"Get up." John kicks the bag of peas out of the way, under the sofa. When Sherlock just looks at him blankly he turns around, finds Sherlock's shoes, and forces them onto his feet for him. He can't do the laces properly – his hands are shaking too much – so he shoves them into the tops of Sherlock's socks. "Now."

"'hy?"

"I've broken your cheekbone."

It comes out more vehemently than he wants it to, but by the time he realises it's too late for him to take the words back; his tongue hovers over teeth as he tries desperately to soften his tone, but all that happens is the words trail into pathetic obscurity. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, which runs sourly over his gums.

Sherlock is on his feet, looking both unsteady and confused. "Y'sure?"

"I'm a doctor." He retrieves his coat and throws it around his shoulders. "Bloody hell Sherlock, you can barely speak. You should have called me."

"If I c'n't speak…"

"Don't." John points towards the door. "Out."

"H'spital?"

"Well bloody deduced."

John makes for the stairs and practically runs down them, leaving Sherlock behind; he can't bear see him, can't bear to look at his own hand – if he could cut it off he might have. The sound of unsteady footsteps starts up behind him, but he's on the street with his arm out to hail a cab before Sherlock catches up. He expects some sort of complaint – Sherlock hates hospitals, hates the way the smell clings to his skin, hates the supposed incompetence of the staff. He wants a complaint, because it would be normal, grounding. But Sherlock doesn't complain. He stands very quietly next to John, and murmurs only one thing as they wait; one question that makes John's heart, already shuddering and leaping at an irregular, breath-stealing pace, throb and twist.

"Wh't should I tell th'm?"

A taxi pulls up. John opens the door.

"The truth."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome! To be continued.**

**By the way, if any of you guys are reading Not the King's Men, don't worry - it'll be updated as usual on Sunday. And I apologise if this story isn't too great; due to the time limit of the challenge I've had far less time to edit than usual.**


	2. Part Two

John decides that if he'd stayed in the flat from the moment he'd thrown the punch it might have made things easier. He could have pretended to himself, to everyone, that he'd felt instant remorse. But he hadn't; he'd stormed off and got pissed, whilst Sherlock sat at home with the shattered bones of his face swelling against his muscle and sinew. He hadn't cared. He'd come back still on the verge of angry, still convinced that everything could be solved with a bit of ice, a paracetamol and an apology.

It's Sherlock's foggy, slurred greeting that brings the guilt. For more than twelve hours John has been sitting in the waiting room, expecting any second for the police to show up, even though he should have accepted that Sherlock had lied on his behalf after the first few minutes had passed.

But seeing Sherlock with his face stitched, his eyes still misty from the general anaesthetic – the way the nurse entrusts everything to John's care, assuming he is in no way responsible for the injury that has caused metal plates to be sewn into her patient's face – it all brings the subject painfully to his consciousness. Just because no-one thinks he's guilty doesn't mean he isn't. It makes it worse – he doesn't have to listen to a lecture; he doesn't have anyone to make him feel bad. He has to set about punishing himself.

Even that is harder than expected. He doesn't have time; he has to help Sherlock up the stairs, to bed. He has to take care of his swollen cheek, the incisions where the surgeon has slipped the plates under his skin, righted the shattered bone. He has to hold Sherlock's head whilst he vomits – a bad, if common, reaction to the anaesthetic. He does it uncomplainingly, but it's not a punishment. He's a doctor. He's had people throw up on him so many times he's lost count.

"What did you tell them?" he asks, when Sherlock is more awake, if a little droopy.

"Mugger." Sherlock still can't speak properly; the word sounds more like a constant hum, an 'mmm' that stretches uncomfortably through the room. It resonates against John's knuckles, making them smart and tingle.

"You shouldn't have lied." He stops. "Thank you. And…I'm sorry." Once he's said it the first time, he can't stop. "God, I'm sorry. I never meant to…I never…sorry…"

Sherlock only shrugs.

* * *

Mycroft shows up a week later to speak to Sherlock alone in the lounge, but John, standing at the bottom of the stairs to his room, can pick up every word. He doesn't feel guilty about eavesdropping. He's curious, and more than a little desperate to know what's going on in Sherlock's head. Not that Sherlock was ever open with Mycroft in the past.

"I have the forms here." Mycroft's voice is distorted as it filters through both the kitchen and a door, and John inches forward as far as he dares, curling his toes against the carpet so tightly they begin to cramp. It helps him concentrate. "All you have to do is sign them, and I'll drop them off at the station on my way back."

"No."

"What?"

"M'not doing it. Can't do it to him."

John feels his spine prickle.

"You can't do it to _him_? Sherlock, he assaulted you. He caused you to have surgery. The very least he can expect is to have charges brought against him…"

"No."

The bones of John's toes feel ready to burst through the skin. He isn't breathing; he can't do anything but stand. He doesn't know whose tone of voice is worse – Mycroft's is terrifying, but Sherlock's…Sherlock's is only flat.

"For god's sake, you can't-"

"He didn't mean to. He…" Sherlock trails off. John knows he's massaging his cheek to make speaking possible again. "He's apologised."

"And the next time this happens?"

"Won't happen."

Something taps with alarmingly rapid rhythm against the floor; for a second John thinks it's footsteps, and readies himself to flee back up the stairs, but then Sherlock speaks again. "Stoppit with that _bloody_ umbrella."

The sound dies. John remembers to breathe out.

"If you don't want to press charges-"

"I don't."

"You understand that I can…have him warned."

John pales. Mycroft, in his stuffy suit and with his prim umbrella, might not seem the most intimidating person at first glance but John is learning, just from his tone of voice, that Mycroft Holmes is a very, very dangerous man.

"No. You d'n't lay a finger on him." There's a scraping sound, a chair being pushed back, and then a crash that indicates someone has misjudged the amount of force used. "Or I will…" A sharp gasp. Pain. Sherlock's forgotten himself, spoken too quickly again. John itches to go help him, check on the alignment of his cheek and jaw and make sure everything he's broken stays patched together. "I wouldn't forgive you."

"Sherlock…"

"_Never_."

It's not the thought of what might happen to him, or between him and Sherlock, that makes John start crying. It's the fact that, even after everything he's done, Sherlock wants John around him. If he's so desperate for companionship he'll put up with a broken face to have it…Jesus. He and Sherlock were supposed to have an absolute trust and understanding. He's broken that, and he's not being punished for it.

The crying is silent, self-indulgent and very, very brief – for John it always has been – but he goes upstairs anyway, just in case someone can hear the tears pattering onto the carpet. Two minutes later Mycroft is gone, and they're alone in the silent flat again. At least it's peaceful; he'll give it that much. Calming. Obviously he's in need of a bit of calming.

"J'hn?"

At the shout John takes the stairs two at a time, desperate to be helpful if he can. He skids at the bottom of the steps and almost falls inelegantly on his arse, only to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking at him with one eyebrow raised. Sherlock's mouth twitches at the right side; even with the cuts and bruises, he manages to look amused.

"No need to kill y'rself."

John straightens up and adjusts his jumper. His hands are shaking and he realises, too late to do anything about it, that the evidence of his tears will still be stretched over his face, glaring to a man of Sherlock's observational skill. He might as well have drawn them on in felt-tip.

"What is it?"

"I know you were listening."

John's cheeks go very red, but the rest of him feels pale. He fiddles with the hem of his jumper, picking at the seams like a child caught with his fingers in the biscuit tin. His stomach feels like its made of hot liquid. Guilty.

"Sorry."

"Stoppit."

"Stop what?"

"Saying…" Sherlock pauses, massages his cheek, and continues. "Saying sorry. It's irritating."

John looks at his feet. There's mud on his shoes, and the laces need cleaning. "Right."

"You kn'w what Mycroft's like – he'll come for you."

John snaps his head up. "What?"

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "He w'n't do anything apart from puff himself up like a fish." He snorts. John watches the stitches flex with horrified fascination. "I've a favour to ask of you."

"Anything."

"When Mycroft meets you, agree to do wh'tever he asks you to."

John blinks. He doesn't question Sherlock's request – he hardly needs an explanation, let alone deserves one – but he feels his heart beginning to squeeze blood more rapidly into his arteries. Guilt is like carbon monoxide; it latches onto his cells and travels around and around in aimless circles, making breathing difficult.

"For god's sake, we need to talk."

Sherlock tips his head marginally to one side. "Why?"

John snorts. "_Why_? Jesus, Sherlock, I put you in a hospital!"

"N't intentionally…"

"That doesn't matter." He leans back against the kitchen table with a heavy sigh that pulls at his Adam's apple, which still aches whenever he tries to breathe. "Why did you lie? Did you think…god, I didn't have the right to do that to you. I didn't."

Sherlock's looking at him with a calculating, cold sort of stare that makes his fingertips tingle. "I lied because it was logical."

An ugly half-snarl passes from between John's lips. "Logical?"

"Of c'rse. You are an asset in my life, and not only on cases." Here Sherlock pauses and presses a fingertip to his cheek, breathing deeply for a couple of seconds before continuing. "To lose you over something like th's would be foolish, as well as making both of us miserable."

Sherlock makes it all sound so cold, like an iced pavement. Grey. To try counter the effects of his own mind John brings his arms up to his head and crushes two fingers against each temple. The movement is fast and jolting, desperate. Sudden.

Sherlock flinches.

It's something minute and momentary, a lapse in Sherlock's self control that John, trained in the army to watch for people's movements in case they were reaching for a weapon to blow his head off with, can pick up on. It definitely happens; when John moves, Sherlock's body tells him to get away, fast.

A hopeless look passes between the two of them; John imagines static being dampened by drizzle. He doesn't wait for Sherlock to open his mouth – he gives a nod by way of silent apology, something he's sure he won't be able to stop doing even if twenty years go by, and turns to go, ignoring the distorted shout of "J'hn!" that follows him out of the door.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	3. Part Three

Mycroft is waiting. He hasn't even had the good grace to pretend to go home; as soon as John, flustered and with his offending hands shoved deep into his pockets, steps out into the rain he sees the black car standing by for him. He gets in. He doesn't need to see Mycroft in the back seat to know what's about to take place.

"Hello, John."

John doesn't reply, too tired to play games. The seat of the car slides underneath damp legs; it's made of expensive leather of some kind. He's probably ruining it, dripping rainwater. Mycroft doesn't seem to care. He can probably afford to buy a new one.

"My brother refuses to press charges against you."

"Yes."

"He doesn't think you deserve it."

"Yes."

The car sets off. Mycroft has his umbrella resting against his knee and it rolls to the left as they turn a corner. John wonders if he's going to end up weighted down at the bottom of the Thames, and then remembers Sherlock had stood up for him. He's protected. Not that his actions justify it.

"I do. Think you deserve it, that is."

"I know."

John can see Mycroft's lips purse in the reflection on the window – he's not brave or stupid enough to look him directly in the eyes.

"You seem surprisingly untroubled by recent events."

John snorts. "Really?"

"Tell me then, John – what have you _changed_ about yourself, about your and Sherlock's arrangements, to prevent this ever happening again?"

John thinks of the way Sherlock's neck had twitched when he'd flinched. His pupils had grown large with fear; John had scared him. The concept is one that makes his mouth dry. Mycroft's right; Sherlock's an annoying git, but he shouldn't have to change who he is because John is too trigger-happy. Fist-happy. Was there a phrase for what had happened between them? Probably not; when it came to him and Sherlock, the usual phrases tended not to apply.

"I'm considering not going back."

"You will go back." Mycroft's reply is instantaneous, and surprising enough for John to turn his head.

"Why?"

"Because he wants you to." Rain spatters the windows, obscuring the street on both sides, blurring them from the view of anyone on the pavements. "And believe me when I tell you my brother is a man who makes argument almost impossible. I know from past experience that talking him out of relinquishing anything, especially if that thing is detrimental to his health, is just as impossible. He believes, quite rightly, I'm afraid, that he has no-one else."

John doesn't argue with that, not even with being described as a 'thing'. He still has his hands shoved guiltily into his pockets.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, I don't want you to say anything. That would be entirely useless." Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a card. "I want you to see this man twice a week for the next two months, and once a week after that for as long as necessary."

The card gives him a long, thin paper cut when he takes it, a little sting, like lemon juice on the webbing of his fingers. It's a simple thing, professional. Doctor Jacob Hawthorne; anger and grief management.

"Nice."

"Rather the opposite, I'm afraid. Greif counselling is never pleasant."

John flicks his eyes in Mycroft's direction, letting the card rest in his lap. "I know that. I went through it, remember?"

"The fact is unforgettable." Mycroft gives him a grim sort of smile that sets John shaking with irritation, until he's gripping the card so tightly gives him another cut. He doesn't think he's stopped trembling, from one thing or the other, since this nightmare began.

"Surely…" John swallows – it's hard for him to admit to Mycroft of all people, that he might need help, but he does it for Sherlock, because if he ever snaps again it will ruin them both. Humiliation is nothing in comparison. "Surely anger management…"

"Oh, you'll be doing both. It's all arranged." Mycroft picks a piece of dust, visible only to him, from his sleeve. "Sherlock did, after much coaxing, tell me the nature of your argument. Three years was a very long time for you to believe he was dead. Both I and Doctor Hawthorne agree it would be better to discuss the roots of the problem, as well as help you to manage your temper."

As a doctor, John has never liked being a patient He likes it even less when Sherlock's slimy git of a brother is playing one behind his back, but every time he indulges in the fantasy of telling Mycroft to shove it he remembers the cracking sound of his knuckles against Sherlock's cheek, and he doesn't dare open his mouth in case he gags. Quite simply, he doesn't have a leg to stand on. Mycroft could say anything he wanted, make John do anything he wanted, and it would be justified.

Besides, he'd promised Sherlock.

"What will I tell him?"

Mycroft shoots a hand out to prevent his umbrella rolling to the floor as the car slows to a halt. John doesn't think they're anywhere near Baker Street, but he understands that a long walk in the rain is what Mycroft wants him to endure, so he doesn't complain.

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock. He's bound to notice I'm going somewhere, and if he doesn't guess it'll be a miracle. What should I tell him?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "The truth."

* * *

Doctor Hawthorne – who insists on calling John by his first name, even though John resolutely continues to call him 'Doctor' – is one of those men who, to look at, people would assume had no concept of the real world. John doesn't know why he thinks this, and he isn't even sure there's a criteria for it, but it's his first impression, and it sticks. Right up to the moment when Doctor Hawthorne sits down and starts asking questions.

He's good at his job, that's for certain. He has John down to a tee – Mycroft had probably given him every scrap of information before he even showed up – and he knows how to push him, how to nag him, how to create and understanding between them. John returns to 221b after his first session feeling bewildered. He returns after the fourth feeling calm for the first time since Sherlock came back from the dead. By the eighth he feels confident enough to apologise to Sherlock again, properly.

This time Sherlock does more than shrug; he accepts the apology. He accepts that John had been in the wrong. The tension which had been perforating the flat for the past two months like the scent of rotten eggs slowly begins to dissipate. Trust seeps back into their lives; the next time John moves quickly, this time to catch a falling teacup, Sherlock doesn't so much as blink. Because they both understand; they understand a mistake had been made, and that it's not going to happen again. Ever.

It helps that the swelling of Sherlock's face beginning to go down, the bruises to fade; it means he can smile again. If there's one thing John needs to see, it's that.

* * *

The case is another long one, another chase, through a museum after closing time. John is running, but for once he doesn't have his gun, because Sherlock has it. Sherlock has it because he can't run.

The suspect, a guard at the museum, had been waiting for them round a blind corner; he'd fired four times before they'd managed to duck. As he runs, John fancies he can still hear the bullets pinging off the surfaces. Two had made high-pitched clinks as they hit the marble columns, and one had shattered a cabinet, sending glass in a waterfall over the stairs. The fourth had hit Sherlock with a soft thump; a dull, heavy sound compared to the rest of them, and all the more terrifying for it.

Sherlock could be dying, but John has been forced to leave him. If he doesn't reach the man then he'll come back, he'll have time to reload or find a new weapon, and John doesn't trust himself to be able to stop him once he starts dealing with Sherlock. He'd given Sherlock firm instructions about pressure and ambulances, and practically forced the gun onto him – Sherlock had only taken it with much protest about who needed it most – and now he's running to take down an armed murderer bare-handed. It doesn't seem like an impossible task; it's simply an obstacle, something stopping him from going back to Sherlock. The faster he's done, the faster he can go help. There's blood on his hands again. He thinks he must have had bloody hands more often than the rest of London put together.

The guard easy to find, hiding in the toilets – Sherlock will be disappointed when he hears – and even less difficult to disarm. He's stupid, inexperienced; he doesn't try and fire at John until he's let him get too close. Within range, John takes him down like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back against the tiles. The gun skitters under a sink somewhere and rests, forgotten, amidst the tangle of pipes as John seizes the man who's put a bullet in Sherlock by the collar and shoves a knee into his chest. They're both panting; the sound of heavy breathing echoes around the small room, booming in his ears until he feels himself becoming frantic. He needs to do this quickly; he's terrified for Sherlock's safety. The blood on his hands is sticky, like the pavement. A drop of it slides from his fingers, down his wrist, and splashes onto the guard's face.

John can kill him, if he wants. He might get away with it. Self defence. He could make it look like suicide – Sherlock would guess, but he wouldn't say anything. Sherlock might die because of this man. John visualises the beating of their hearts – his, bucking like a frightened horse; Sherlock's, beginning shiver and fade whilst John sits on the floor of a stinking bathroom and tries to think. And the guard's. He can feel it fluttering under his knee, like a baby mouse. Mice can be crushed. John's stepped on them before now, by accident. It would be easy to do it again.

His fingers are gripping the man's collar so tightly it begins to rip as he settles back on his haunches and breathes through his nose. One, two, three. Imagine the breaths coming out the top of his head and resting there. A ball of light. One, two, three. Breathe out. Picture what the air looks like as it leaves his mouth. Blue.

"Take it easy." He repeats the phrase four times, five times, six times, until the frantic murmur becomes a coherent sentence. Until he stops trembling. "Take it easy."

He lets the man's collar go, rips off the sleeves of both their shirts, binds and gags him, and takes the offending gun as he runs, quickly but calmly, back towards Sherlock.

* * *

"I would have thought you'd tear him limb from limb," Greg murmurs.

The flashing lights of the police cars are making John's eyes hurt, and he has to bring a hand up to shade them before he can reply. Blood rubs off on his eyebrows, but he ignores it. Sherlock will be fine; he'd still been conscious as he was taken into the ambulance, conscious enough to snap at the paramedics and tell John, with a smirk, not to 'wait up'.

"Six months ago, I might have."

Greg looks at him more intently. "Why? What happened?"

John glances at the sky, and then lets his eyes wander down the road the ambulance had taken Sherlock. Time to spend yet more of his life in a hospital waiting room. Not that he minds. God knows, he'd waited for Sherlock for three years; three days, three weeks, is nothing. Perhaps, when he's feeling better, Sherlock will smile for him.

"John? What happened six months ago?"

John shakes his head. "Nothing, Greg. Nothing."

* * *

**I know there were so many different ways I could have ended this story - especially when people started thinking about it in the reviews - and it took me ages to decide, but I'm hoping I picked the best way. I didn't have a lot of time due to the deadline, and I was doing my A-levels at the same time as writing so...**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome! You've all been really supportive, and I loved it, thank you!**

**The End.**


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